


We Bury The Sunlight

by Itneveroccurredtomeatall



Series: The Year That Never Was Fest [1]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Big Finish, Drunk Sex, F/M, Friendship, Heavy Drinking, John & Jack & Andy are mentioned but it really focuses on Norton and Yvonne, M/M, Norton Folgate & Yvonne Hartman friendship, Rain, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27606755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itneveroccurredtomeatall/pseuds/Itneveroccurredtomeatall
Summary: Andy Davidson is dead. This is the aftermath.
Relationships: Andy Davidson/Norton Folgate, Andy Davidson/Yvonne Hartman, Yvonne Hartman / John Hart
Series: The Year That Never Was Fest [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018387
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Torchwood Fan Fests: The Year That Never Was Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the prompt Grief in The Year That Never Was Fest!
> 
> In this timeline, John Hart joined Torchwood at the end of Season 2. Andy's still not technically Torchwood but he helps out a lot. 
> 
> I wrote this at 3 am yesterday and it turns out I write angst when I'm tired. There will be a second chapter with Norton so I'll update the tags when that goes up! 
> 
> Warning for heavy drinking, major character death mentioned, dubious sex (drunk & emotional), and generally unhealthy coping mechanisms

The funeral is nice. Or as nice as a funeral can be. It’s in the countryside at his family’s plot. His uncle, the one who committed suicide, is in the grave next to his, his grandmother in the one next to that.

They lower him into the ground as it rains softly. It’s as if the whole world is crying for the loss of Andy Davidson. 

Everyone’s there. His mother, his aunt, some of his other family members, Gwen, Rhys, Jack, Norton, Tyler, Ng, Orr, St. John, Colin, a few people she doesn’t recognize, and, from what she can tell, the vast majority of the South Wales Police Force. Together, she imagines, they’ve kept this town and the next town over’s inns afloat for the next year and a half.

They all stand in silence as the grave is slowly filled. Shovelful after shovelful of dirt lands on the coffin’s gleaming dark brown surface until it’s no longer visible. Eventually, there’s just a fresh patch of dirt that’s slowly turning into mud beneath the Welsh rain.

Yvonne’s grateful for the rain. It hides the fact that she’s not crying. 

She’s never been one for crying. Not even when she was a young child or a hormonal teenager. 

She tells herself that she isn’t crying at Andy Davidson’s funeral because it’s the Hartman Way. That that expression of emotional fragility had been stamped out of her long ago. But, perhaps more honestly, if she starts crying now, she’s not sure she’ll ever stop.

Yvonne watches as each guest places a single rose on top of the grave and says something quietly to the grave as if Andy might hear it. 

By the time it’s her turn, she can barely see the patch of dirt. She says nothing as she sets her rose down on one of the remaining patches of dirt.

* * *

At the bar in the tiny inn, she downs shot after shot after shot. It turns out she has no qualms destroying her liver in addition to her lungs. Half the funeral party is also at the bar watching her get wasted but she can’t bring herself to care.

For the most part, they keep their distance, watching her with pitiful expressions on their faces. Orr, bless, tries to speak with her at one point and Yvonne pointedly ignores them in favor of downing another shot. 

The vodka makes her eyes water as it burns its way down her throat and into her body.

Orr gets the message and quietly places a reassuring hand on Yvonne’s shoulder before they leave. 

The rest of the night is a blur and suddenly the bar is closing.

She hands her credit card to the bartender to settle her tab.

“You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” a voice says from behind her. 

She turns. It’s John. 

“Come back with me,” he says. 

It’s a bad idea. She knows that the instant he says it but, once her tab is settled, she finds herself following John out of the bar.

It’ll be a nightmare to sort out, she thinks. If not a personal one, certainly an HR one. She’s his boss, Andy’s dead, and they’re drunk. Though, she’s pretty sure he’s always a little drunk; she’s never not smelled alcohol on his breath. But they make it to his room, neither of them backing out. 

They fumble with their clothes in the dark for several minutes. His hands are warm as he works to remove her dress. 

When they’re finally naked and he leans in for a kiss, she turns her head. His lips fall on her cheek.

The sex is messy and desperate. The first time she comes, she calls out Andy’s name. The second time, she bites her tongue.

* * *

In the morning, she wakes to find John staring intently at her in the soft morning light that’s slipping through the crack in the curtains. It’s unsettling and she tells him so. 

He ignores her in favor of reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “He was lucky, you know?”

Yvonne swallows and looks away. “I was lucky.”


	2. Chapter 2

Norton Folgate watches as the crowds quickly disperse once the ceremony is over. He can’t blame them. The Welsh rain had only gotten worse throughout the ceremony, going from a light sprinkle to a fairly heavy splattering. Any moment now, it’ll be a heavy downpour. 

He stands for a few more moments, waiting until the cemetery is completely empty, before approaching the grave.

“You just had to be the hero, didn’t you?” Norton hisses as he comes to a halt directly in front of the grave and glares down at the pile of partially-drowned roses. “Never mind you hadn’t the proper training and weren’t _at all_ qualified for it. No! It’s Sergeant Andy to the rescue! _Hooray!_ Only no one was there to rescue _you_.” His voice breaks. 

He’s angry and it’s irrational. It does no one any good to blame a dead man for his own death. And, yet, he’s furious with Andy. He’s furious with Andy for dying and taking what could have been years of friendship - and, if Norton had his way - more with him. 

Every time Norton imagines his future, Andy’s there. Sometimes as a friend, sometimes as a lover, but he’s always there. He’s always an important part of Norton’s life and it’s strange how fast Andy had wired himself into Norton’s life. 

Norton had spent decades of his life not knowing the man but now the thought of living through decades more without seeing him is a sobering thought. 

Norton quickly wipes away a stray tear with the back of his hand. He’s not going to cry over anyone. Certainly not over Andy Davidson.

It’s starting to pour now so he retreats and takes a seat on a wooden bench that’s nestled beneath a nearby tree. 

The tree has sheltered the bench from most of the rain but the rainwater that had managed to reach the bench soaks into his suit’s trousers but Norton can’t bring himself to care.

When his teeth are chattering and his clothes are soaked completely through, he stands and starts heading for the cemetery’s gate. 

* * *

He comes back early the next morning to find a deserted cemetery.

Andy’s headstone gleams in the morning sunlight as Norton takes a seat on the wooden bench again.

The roses look a little worse for the wear today. They’re soggy and limp. Several have been dispersed to the surrounding area by the previous night’s wind or rain and they’re fanned out, decorating unimportant patches of grass. 

For a while, he simply sits and stares at the grave in silence. He’s still angry with Andy but… it doesn’t matter anymore. Instead, his thoughts turn toward his memories of Andy and all the times they’d saved each other. Eventually, this leads to the very last time when he hadn’t been there to save Andy so he decides to think about the more mundane memories like talking as they wait for the light to turn green or eating takeaways. 

Norton frowned as he remembered their last weekly takeaway dinner. He had dropped hints about his feelings, but Andy, as usual, didn’t seem to catch them. 

_“It’s not that I mind,” Andy had said between bites of lo mein. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need constant validation but… it would be nice to hear it just once. I mean, it’s three words. Wouldn’t take long. Doesn’t cost a thing.”_

_Norton had been tempted to say them to Andy then. Of course, he hadn’t. Instead he’d said something about how people express love in different ways and maybe Yvonne just wasn’t particularly verbal about it. It had been, by his standards, unusually thoughtful._

_He’d wanted to say, some people express their love by buying you takeaway and listening to you talk about everything, from the weather to rugby to your romantic relationship with their boss, but he’d simply listened and nodded when appropriate, eaten his lo mein, and watched the setting sun with Andy._

Norton’s not sure of how long he’s been sitting there, lost in his thoughts, when he hears soft footfalls approaching.

He turns to find Yvonne. It’s not surprising, really, but he had hoped for a little more time alone with Andy.

He moves to leave but she shakes her head.

“Don’t leave on my account,” she says. 

So he stays and offers her a seat on the bench beside him. 

She sits and he sneaks a few glances at her as she stares at the grave. He notices, to his surprise, that she’s still in the dress she’d worn to the funeral. Her hair isn’t as styled as it usually is and there are dark circles under her eyes. They aren’t puffy or red like he’s sure his own must be but she looks more tired and defeated than he’s ever seen her. 

Her posture’s as rigid as the statue standing at the cemetery’s gate but, when she reaches up to brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear, he can see that she’s trembling ever so slightly. 

Together, they sit and hold a silent vigil consisting of two people who had loved Andy more than anything in the world but had never told him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's sad and it's angsty. Perfect for 2020. Thanks for reading! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I thought I was done with this but then I had a few more ideas the other night and decided to write a little more (it's still kind of angsty but maybe a little less so?). If you like the original ending, you don’t have to read this! It just adds a little more closure (and now I'm thinking that I'll also add another chapter for Norton at some point)!

As the years go by, the pain of losing Andy lessens. It’s still there… but it’s more manageable. A dull ache instead of a weeping wound. 

It’s silly - and she’d hoped to never be this cliché - but she swears she catches glimpses of him around the city. Not in a  _ Torchwood _ sort of way but in the way that certain places bring certain memories to the forefront of the mind. Memories so powerful they can make the present disappear for a moment. 

Sometimes he’ll be waiting in line besides her at his favorite kebab shop, grinning as he squints at the overhead menus despite the fact that he’s had the exact same order for as long as she’s known him and the instant they’d walked in the door, the workers had gotten started on his order. Other times, she thinks she sees him checking his phone on the Plass as he waits for her to get out of work. But, each time, the instant she blinks, he’s gone.

It’s particularly bad that first year. She’s always made a habit of working late - work had been her first love - but she starts staying over more and more because, despite all of his best efforts, Andy had spent a very limited amount of time in the Hub. It’s a relief to be away from all the little things in Cardiff that remind her of him. Down here, it’s cold and dark and so fundamentally  _ unlike _ Andy. 

Eventually, Jack sets up a bed for her in a quiet corner of the Hub, says he couldn’t stand to watch her fall asleep at her desk any longer, and that he’d invite her to stay with him in the bunker with him and John if he didn’t think she’d shoot him for it. 

She lets that go because he’s stocked the bed with the softest-looking pillows she’s ever seen, sleeping at her desk has resulted in more back pain than she’d care to admit, and she’s  _ so very tired _ . 

On the days she stays in the Hub, Jack leaves a cup of coffee at her desk. It’s always there, fresh and steaming, when she wakes up and she, him, and John sit in silence, sipping their coffee in the early hours of the morning before the rest of the team arrives. 

It’s a simple ritual but it, strangely, means a lot to her. It’s a new sort of normal. 

Sleeping with John has also become a new normal. 

Since the funeral, John has been… John. He unabashedly flirts with her and everyone else in the near vicinity. He’s far worse than Jack in that respect and he’s continued his arrangement with Jack and established a new one with her. That makes it sound far more official than it is. In reality, she and John only fuck on bad days, though she sometimes wonders if he’d like it to be more. 

She doesn’t remember much about that first time now (and she’s not sure if he does either) but the one thing she does remember is the almost tender expression on his face the morning after. 

Sometimes she’ll catch it again when he thinks she isn’t watching him and it scares her a little but not enough to stop. She still has… needs and she still isn’t over Andy- probably will never be over him - and John’s there, willing, and not Jack Harkness. That’s enough for her. 

She and Jack have never been on the best of terms. Even now, with the bond of having lost someone, their relationship is strained, at best. Not that she’s ever heard Jack speak of Ianto Jones, of course. Or anyone else he’d lost, for that matter. For such an out-going man, he’s surprisingly tight-lipped about that part of his life. She’s only managed to put together bits and pieces from what Jack’s said in passing and what the others have said. The file in the archives isn’t particularly helpful and only contains basic information:  _ birthday, family members, education, criminal record, attendance record, performance reviews, address, allergies _ and she’s not even sure how helpful any of that is because Ianto Jones had clearly created and filed his own paperwork, including his hiring forms. 

Everyone deserves their privacy, she supposes, especially when dealing with loss, but a part of her wonders just exactly how many years Jack Harkness will grieve for Ianto Jones and, by extension, how long she will grieve for Andy. 

It’s a little easier with Norton. They are, after all, mourning the same person. 

They visit his grave together once a year but they never actually go on Andy’s birthday; they instinctively know that that’s reserved for his mother. 

Instead, on a random day in July when work’s slow enough (and one time in August when work hadn’t been slow enough), they take the day off. She texts him or he texts her “Tomorrow?” and, assuming the world isn’t about to end, they both take the following day off. 

She’s certain Jack knows about this arrangement. How could he not? It’s the only day she takes off each year aside from sick days and the fact that it always lines up with a day in July that Norton takes off… well, Jack would have to be far more unobservant than she took him for. 

Thankfully, he’s never said anything about it. Each year, he simply nods, says he can handle anything that comes up, and tells her to enjoy herself.

And, to her surprise, she does start to enjoy herself. Not the first year or the second or even the third - those years are downright miserable - but the fourth year feels different. Since then, each year feels a little easier than the one before and each year brings her and Norton a little closer.

They’re co-workers and possibly even friends - that’s all they’ll ever be - but they’re bonded by the same loss in a way that only they can understand. 

She and Norton could, of course, drive out together - after all, they live in the same city and work in the same dingy, sewer-chic base - but they never do. It wouldn’t seem right. 

So they drive separately and meet at the cemetery gate to walk in together year after year. She brings the alcohol (a bottle of Zima which Andy had inexplicably loved and a bottle of something she and Norton will actually drink) and he brings the snacks. It’s been that way since the very first year.

And each year, their trip to Andy’s grave reopens the wound of losing him as they allow themselves to think and talk about Andy for as long as they need to and, when night falls and they head back to their cars, they both feel a little better than they had felt the previous year. 


	4. Chapter 4

Norton shuts off the car engine and grabs the basket of food from the passenger seat before shutting the door and locking the car. 

He turns to find that Yvonne’s already at the gate waiting for him with a bottle of Zima in her left hand and a bottle of red wine in her right, each capped with a wine glass. 

His eyesight has been steadily worsening these past few years but there’s no mistaking Yvonne Hartman for anyone else. He can feel the confidence and power she exudes before he’s even close enough to make out her face. Part of it’s her posture, he thinks, but part of it is just  _ her _ . 

He’s never been scared of her,  _ per se _ . He likes to think that he simply respects her a great amount and, it’s true, he does, but there’s something more to it than that. Physically, he’s sure he could take her. She’s older now and he’s always been taller, more fit. But her mind, her masterful way of manipulating people outclasses even his own well-developed manipulation techniques. 

It’s funny, he thinks, how two people so different from Andy, who had almost never had the upper hand in any situation and had always been so simply and wholeheartedly  _ good _ , had fallen for him all those years ago and still haven’t quite managed to get over him. 

Sure, Norton hasn’t been anything close to celibate, and neither has Yvonne judging by the way he occasionally catches her and John not-so-subtly slinking around the Hub, but no one has mattered to him as much as Andy did.

As Norton draws nearer to the cemetery gate, he’s struck by how different Yvonne looks when she’s not at work. She still has that commanding presence (he’s pretty sure she was born with that) and she’s still beautiful, even glamorous, but the suits, blouses, and heels are gone. In their place, there’s a simple sundress and sandals.

He can’t blame her, though, for getting out of her usual black ensemble. It’s the hottest day they’ve had all summer. Andy would have loved it. He would have been out, probably on patrol, purposefully positioning himself in a position where he could get the most sun in an attempt to lessen his rather pasty complexion. 

Yvonne’s softened over the years. Sure, she’s still far more driven and ruthless than the average person could ever dream of being, but she’s also a little warmer and a little more open.

He wonders how often Andy had gotten to see her like this and, with a pang, he realizes that Andy had never gotten to see her  _ quite _ like this. Her hair is now sporting dignified streaks of grey and the lines on her face, from years of long nights, stress, and smoking have deepened. 

Had she worked a normal job, she would have already been able to draw her pension and retire to a lovely cottage in the Cotswolds, but this is Torchwood and there’s no time for retirement. Though, he has the sneaking suspicion that even if they had an abundance of staff at Torchwood Three, Yvonne would still show up bright and early each day. After all, duty never ends. 

He’s steadily approaching the age of retirement, too - though he’s still got a few years left - but he’s never seriously considered it. This world is so tiny and so very vulnerable; it needs everyone it can possibly get to keep fighting for it. 

And, if he’s being honest with himself, he still hasn't forgotten Andy’s almost desperate desire to be involved with Torchwood, to be  _ brilliant _ , to help others by changing the world for the better. It was one of the things he’d loved the most about Andy and it had been that altruism that had ultimately gotten Andy killed. 

Norton and Yvonne greet each other and cross the cemetery together, the gravel shifting beneath their feet before giving way to soft grass, to take their usual seat on the bench near Andy’s grave. 

Yvonne sets the bottles between them and Norton places the basket on the ground at his feet before removing two paper plates, a baguette, a small wheel of cheese, and a knife. 

Norton glances at Andy’s grave. The headstone is duller than it used to be but that’s to be expected. There’s a small bouquet of roses, a single sunflower, and a small photo resting on top of the grave. He supposes the bouquet’s from Andy’s mother, though he’s not sure who left the sunflower. 

The photo must have been Gwen for a painfully young Andy and Gwen are grinning ear to ear, their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, as they stand in front of the police station. That Andy looks so different from the one Norton knew that he’s almost surprised he can recognize Andy at that age - he’s practically a child in the photo, lanky, awkward, and not quite fitting his frame yet with more hair than Norton had ever seen him with - and, at the same time, Norton thinks that he’d recognize Andy anywhere. 

Yvonne upends the glasses and sets them down on the bench before opening the Zima and pouring a glass for each of them.

“To Andy,” she says as she lifts her glass. 

“To Andy,” Norton repeats as he clinks his glass against hers. 

The sound rings out in the deserted cemetery and they both take a sip then grimace simultaneously. 

“It’s still horrible,” Yvonne muses as she stands.

“It truly is.” Norton wrinkles his nose and follows suit.

They approach the grave together.

“Happy birthday, Andy.” Yvonne pours the rest of her glass on the grave.

“Happy birthday,” Norton repeats as he empties his glass over the grave.

They stand in silence and watch as the Zima slowly sinks into the earth, then Norton turns to her.

“Care for some bread and cheese, Yvonne?” he asks. 

She smiles, her eyes crinkling slightly, and nods. 

They return to the bench, uncork the wine, and spend the rest of the day reminiscing about a long dead man who was better than they’ll ever be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! (It's really done now!) I hope you enjoyed it!!


End file.
